


Holiday Flavours

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baked Goods, Coffee, Costa Coffee, Feeding, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Just a silly holiday foodie drabble, M/M, Mycroft has a slushie, Mycroft has a weakness for food, Mystrade Holiday 2018, Shameless abuse of a hotdog, Starbucks, TLC, and Greg has a weakness for Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: It begins innocently enough. Greg makes a friendly gesture and discovers that he likes to feed Mycroft...and watch him eat. Mycroft blossoms under Greg's attention and their friendship deepens.





	Holiday Flavours

**Author's Note:**

> This is silly but hopefully enjoyable. Although there are elements of feederism here, that's not really the point.
> 
> On Tumblr & Twitter as @savvyblunders

_Early September_

 

          “So I’m a total basic bitch,” Greg said, breezing into Mycroft’s quiet office, bearing two steaming, fragrant coffee cups, “but I love pumpkin spice lattes.” He set the cups down, one in front of Mycroft, the other in front of his accustomed visitor’s chair. “Here,” he offered, extracting two paper bags from his overcoat pockets, “I got you a slice of pumpkin bread as well. Couldn’t walk past without getting it for myself, and it would be base cruelty to ask you to watch me eat it with nary a crumb for yourself.”

          Wondering what exactly a “basic bitch” was, Mycroft looked up tiredly from the August end-of-month expense reports for field agents that he was required to review and approve, for some ungodly reason. Probably as punishment for his spectacular failure to contain Eurus; that and a dozen other irksome and tiresome tasks that had suddenly needed his personal attention in the last nine months. All things which normally no one would have dared dream of bothering the ominous Mister Holmes with. Not that he was so ominous any longer. No indeed, he had quite lost a lot of his illusion of omniscient power when word got out that his mad sister had locked him in a cell at Sherrinford.

          Still, enduring these slights and demeaning tasks were better than facing a posting to some godforsaken Siberian village, to live out his days eating reindeer meat and only seeing the sun half the year. Although he _did_ look good in fur, thank you very much.

          “Thank you,” he said politely, refraining from mentioning his devotion to tea, and his distaste for overly sweet coffee concoctions. His politesse arose more from his regard for the good detective than any sense of decorum. It had been a beastly day.

          He was glad he’d kept his mouth shut when he took the first sip. Dear Lord, it was, in a word, yummy. Suddenly their already enjoyable weekly status meetings were looking entirely sunnier. Mycroft had been miffed when he discovered Sherlock had asked Greg to oversee him as if he were some frail invalid. Miffed but also touched. And too the Detective Inspector was a welcome visitor not only for the break from the tedium it supplied to his days, but because he was a physically pleasing image to look at.

          If one had to look at anything it might as well be a man as handsome as Greg Lestrade. Not that Mycroft’s interest in his appearance was personal. Far from it. He stayed out of the personal arena. It was merely a matter of…aesthetics. Yes, aesthetics.

          Mycroft put down his pen and pushed aside the files, pulling the bag toward him, “Pumpkin bread, you say?” Be damned to his eternal efforts at healthy eating. He’d earned a baked good.

          “So good,” Greg enthused through a crumbly bite of his own treat. He regarded Mycroft as he examined and then bit into the treat. Heaven. Sheer, spiced heaven. Hoping for the best but expecting the worse, Mycroft braced himself as he sipped at his coffee. Ah…what a very welcome surprise. It seemed he had been wrong. He did like sweet coffee concoctions. How very perspicacious of the Inspector.

 

******

 

_Where did you obtain that unusual drink, Inspector? I wished to purchase one for my assistant. MH_

_Starbucks._

_Good, huh?_

_I created a PSL monster hehe_

_She has earned a treat. MH_

_What, may one ask, is a PSL? MH_

_PSL= Pumpkin Spice Latte!_

_Ah, clarity. My gratitude for your assistance. Anthea will thank you as well. MH_

_Enjoy your drink, Mycroft :)_

_******_

          There was no denying he was putting on weight. Mycroft scowled at his reflection in the glass pastry case. “Anything else, sir?” The bored barista asked, blowing her fringe out of her eyes. Mycroft mightily restrained himself from pointing out her need for a hairnet. He glared again at the offending lack of pumpkin bread, “No, just the latte, since you are out of the bread.”

          “We’ve just got in a new one,” she offered, “Apple cider donut.”

          Mycroft paused, considered, “I have changed my mind; I shall have one of those.” He put a hand to his stomach, frowned, hesitated, “Make it two.”

 

******

 

_IMAGE.001.825734.jpeg_

_Blimey, that’s green!_

_While the colour is lurid, the flavour is delightfully tart. MH_

_What’s it called then?_

_It is referred to as a caramel apple slushy. MH_

_Some place local?_

_America. MH_

_So that’s a no. Fetch me one back?:)_

_You are nonsensical. MH_

_That’s what they all say about me_

_Nonsensical Greg XD_

_IMAGE.001.825735_

_Mycroft is that a HOTDOG?_

_Wow…you’re really uh enjoying that._

_******_

 

          Greg paused in the doorway to Mycroft’s office, struck by the subtle, but visible change in the other man. There was something softer…rounder…about the long form in the ubiquitous three piece suit. And a certain…rosiness?…about the cheeks. He looked healthy and well-fed, content. Mycroft’s smile, when he looked up, was positively warm; he looked happy to see Greg, which gave him a boost.

          “Awright, mate?” Greg asked, shutting the door behind him, attempting to radiate calmness; no use thinking about the picture of Mycroft with his lips wrapped around a perfectly massive hotdog. He was already unsettled enough with how eagerly he had been looking forward to today. Greg had really missed their usual meeting last week whilst Mycroft was in America. He held aloft two cups, “Not pumpkin spice, I’m afraid.”

          Mycroft blinked, disappointment visible in every line of his body, “But—”

          “They’re seasonal, limited time only, ‘m sad to say,” Greg explained, “ _But_ …I brought us something new, Seasonal Spice flat white—think you’ll like it.” He beamed triumphantly at Mycroft’s eager reach, the pursed lips, cautious sip and delighted expression. “And, since I couldn’t resist, some chocolate hazelnut croissants.”

          “I confess, I’ve always had a weakness for croissants,” Mycroft admitted, tearing off a flaky piece and closing his eyes in bliss as the pastry melted on his tongue. “Oh…my…Gregory…”

          It was the first time Mycroft had ever unbent enough to call him by his name. Greg resolved to bring him goodies more often. Someone needed to pamper Mycroft Holmes, the man positively cried out for affection and care, and he thought he might just be the man for the job. He was eager enough, anyway…surely it was the act of a friend to take happiness from seeing him smile? That he was wildly attracted to the man had nothing to do with it.

 

******

 

          The next time Greg saw Mycroft, however, he was in no position to pamper him or anyone. It had been a rough couple of days and he was running late, no time to stop for brekkie or even make a decent coffee. He’d thrown together an instant coffee (travesty) as he ran around his flat dressing for work, then hurried out the door, as he had overslept and was in danger of arriving late. Not even a measly piece of toast for a poor working man.

          His imminent tardiness didn’t matter, in the end, as he received a call out to a robbery before he ever made it to NSY. Ignoring his grumbling stomach, Greg headed up his team as they investigated the theft of quite a lot of high-end items in a very pricy Georgian row-front home. Greg looked around him in awe, but with no envy. He could admire it without longing for it. Honestly Greg’s needs were simple; he didn’t burn with the desire to own such a home, or to fill it with priceless things someone would want to steal.

          The only thing worth taking in his flat was his big-screen, and even that probably wasn’t as fancy as the staff housing here. Greg figured the staff looked down on him as being lower than themselves.

          The home-owner was such a mucky-muck that they weren’t even allowed to speak with him, merely being passed off to the property manager—a woman who would have been described as a butler in another time. She was cooperative, but unfriendly, and he could feel the pinch between his eyes that signaled a looming headache. It had the feeling of a very long day and it was only eight thirty.

          Rescue came some time later in the form of the elder Holmes, who glided into Greg’s crime scene as if he owned it, nodding graciously to Donovan and extending a carrier bag. “Detective Inspector,” he greeted Greg as formally as if they had never exchanged texts, as if he had not sent Greg a very nearly pornographic photo of himself eating a sausage. “I’ve come to deliver you both breakfast as well as some news regarding your case.”

          “If you’ve come to tell me we’re being booted—” Greg glowered, annoyed that he’d already spent two hours here and now the absentee milord or whoever was calling in the big guns to rescue him.

          “Not at all, in fact I’ve come bearing some information which I believe you will find extremely useful in bringing this case to a swift and satisfying conclusion,” Mycroft assured him, extracting coffee cups once they were safely removed to the tent set up on the narrow grounds. Greg was damned if he would let his stomach dictate the safe handling of consumables on the site of a crime. Chain of evidence and cross contamination could kill you in court and he was already up against the unenthusiastic participation of the staff members.

          “It’s from Costa,” Mycroft explained, “I thought I would branch out. It’s their new Bonfire Spiced latte.” Although he spoke the name as if he were reading out the name of an exotic artefact in a museum—Greg could hear the capitals— Mycroft seemed positively breezy with friendliness. Greg perked up.

          Donovan, accepting one with abashed thanks, looked between the two of them speculatively. Greg mouthed at her to go, scowling, but she waited until she had been handed a drool-worthy cookie. He ignored her cheeky wink as she left.

          Alone, the two men smiled a trifle awkwardly at one another. This was the first time Mycroft had sought Greg out, and he was trying not to put too much significance on it. Just because he had developed notable feelings of attraction for the other man didn’t mean they were reciprocated simply because Mycroft had brought him a snack.

          Taking a bite out of the breakfast sandwich loaded with meats, egg and mushrooms, Greg found it hard, however, not to take heart from being courted with food.

 

******

 

          Robbery case successfully completed, Greg splashed out on drinks at the pub for his team. One round turned into two and several hours later he finally poured himself into a cab, tripping over the belt of his trench coat.

          Night-time London passed in a dreamy haze of lights and people. Gazing out the window, Greg reflected on the many different natures of London and its environs. Take, for instance, the posh neighborhood he’d spent his day in. Right up Mycroft’s alley, no doubt. Full of galleries and restaurants suited for a man of his refined tastes.

          “Yet he likes a PSL just as much as the next man,” Greg reminded himself, drawing the driver’s eyes to his in the mirror. He looked away, continuing the conversation silently. _I mean, that hotdog! Come on!...he sure does enjoy his food...think I’ve introduced him to a few new places. Look at him fetching Costa this morning! Bet he even went in himself, all dapper in his cute suit with his little brolly._

Whipping out his phone, Greg grinned besottedly for a moment at the home screen image of Mycroft biting into a loaded hotdog, stunning eyes positively come hither as he stared into the camera, before he pulled up the search bar. Mind busy with ideas, he started thumbing through four star restaurants (he wasn’t sure he could afford five stars, and besides, a man needed something to aspire to if there was a second date). A moment of hesitation over the wisdom of calling when he’d been drinking followed the discovery of a place which suited his needs, but alcohol gave him the necessary cheek and he dialled, nervous but smiling.

          “Mycroft Holmes,”

          “Myc,” Greg said, sitting up straight at the sound of the other man’s voice, nickname slipping out unnoticed, so used had he become to thinking of him thus. “Hey. Hey. Um, I was thinking, you made my job loads easier today—‘n fact, we even got out of work on time, instead of staying late to finish up the paperwork—”

          “It was nothing, Greg.”

          “—still, I’d like to take you out to dinner, thank you.” Greg held his breath, but when Mycroft didn’t speak he hurried on, “Found a place that serves lamb with spiced cranberry sauce, it’s a seasonal special. Thought we might could give that a try?”

          “You really don’t need to feel beholden to me, Greg.” Mycroft spoke slowly, “I don’t expect you to give up your free time being forced to socialize with me.”

          “Who’s forced?” Greg asked, barely registering that the cab was slowing as they approached a wreck. “I _want_ to.” He let his eagerness bleed through into his tone, and it must have tipped the scales in his favour, for Mycroft agreed to accompany him to dinner the following Saturday. Elated, Greg didn’t even mind the forty minute delay the wreck caused him.

 

*******

 

          For all the times they had eaten together, the two men were oddly uncomfortable with sitting down at a cloth covered table and making conversation. Perhaps it was the unspoken understanding that this was _very nearly_ like something approaching a date (Mycroft) and most-certainly- a-date-even-if-he-was-a-complete-coward-and-hadn’t-said-as-much-yet (Greg).

          Making polite, stiff comments on the options, they perused the menu before they ordered cocktails. Greg thought of and discarded half a dozen different conversational overtures, while Mycroft silently berated himself for suddenly being bereft of social chitchat. He was certain he wouldn’t have such an issue with anyone else, but Gregory had the ability to derail his normally orderly thoughts.

          They both greeted with relief the waitress’s return; she came bearing a bread basket, artisanal butters and a list of specials. After a good deal of denial and deferral—the young waitress’s eyes following them as if they were a tennis match that particularly fascinated her— they decided to share the arancini for starters. Greg ordered the caramel apple and onion pork medallions over cheese risotto, while Mycroft opted for the aforementioned lamb with a cranberry, harissa and mint sauce and accompanying sides. The waitress, looking reluctant to leave for some odd reason, complimented them on their choices and promised to return shortly with their rice balls.

          “This was most hospitable of you,” Mycroft murmured, placing his Amberjack precisely back down on the table with an appreciative purse of his lips for the smooth taste of the drink. Greg had chosen well, it was all quite promising so far. He resisted being charmed. This was _not_ a date.

          He was nearly certain.

          “I told you,” Greg returned, sounding antsy, “it’s not me being kind or gracious or anything. I wanted to have dinner with you.” He went slowly but surely red, “I _like_ you, Mycroft.” It was clear he hadn’t meant to speak those words, but equally clear that he spoke the truth.

          Greg spoke with a frankness and assertiveness which caused Mycroft’s eyebrows to fly up, and his eyes to dart to Greg’s. They were equally struck, gazes tangled, unable to look away, as awareness flowered between them, too strong to ignore or dismiss. Mycroft let a tiny sigh escape, and knew with a sort of fatalism that his pupils were dilating and his expression was screaming his feelings.

          However, Greg seemed equally affected, and they might have gazed at one another for ages, if not for the arrival of the bright-eyed waitress, who hardly seemed able to hold in her smile as she set down the piping-hot arancini, dusted with parmesan and parsley. “Anything else?” she asked almost breathlessly, and seemed disappointed to be told no, lingering for a just a moment to straighten the salt and pepper grinders before she departed.

          “Looks…um, looks good,” Greg said, tearing his eyes away from Mycroft’s. He broke one of the rice balls open with his fork and steam billowed up; Mycroft warned him against taking a bite when they were so hot but Greg laughed and claimed to have an asbestos mouth. He did, of course, wince (and quite dramatically, at that) when he bit into it and quickly covered his mouth, exhaling and waggling his eyebrows to relieve his feelings.

          Mycroft surprised himself into laughing out loud, a rather deep belly laugh, and Greg shot him a mischievous grin, still waving one hand in front of his mouth. “God, they’re like lava,” he commented, swallowing and taking a hasty sip of his water, “but they’re delicious. Try one!”

          “I shall wait until they cool off,” Mycroft said sensibly. But when Greg dipped the other half of his rice ball in the chunky marinara and offered it across the table, Mycroft was unable to resist. He looked into Greg’s eyes as his lips closed around the fork and desire trembled inside of him, his heartbeat increasing at the look of pure want on Greg’s face. “Oh my,” he murmured, swallowing, “that was quite delicious.”

          “You, uh, you always seem to enjoy your food,” Greg stuttered, clutching his fork, “’s good to see you eat.” His face flooded with colour again, but he stumbled on, “Makes me, dunno, _happy_ to see you eat.”

          “Even though I’ve gained weight?” Mycroft dared to ask, referring to the ten pounds he’d put on in the last two months. The pleasure he had received not only from the food, but from Greg’s zestful presence and friendly manner had all but outweighed the dismay his weight gain had caused in him. Clever though his tailor was Mycroft was aware of his extra padding.

          “Love watching you eat,” Greg said simply, face radiating honesty, “Love the few extra pounds you’ve put on…and how happy you look.” He smiled boyishly, “you’re gorgeous slim, and you’d be gorgeous chubby.” He ducked his head, “’m I mad for talking to you like this? I know you’ve never said…but I just…”

          Heady with delight, Mycroft reached out and stroked the back of Greg’s hand, loving the warmth and vitality of his flesh. “Your feelings are more than reciprocated, Gregory…I feel,” he faltered, drew courage and continued, “I feel true happiness when I’m with you.”

          “Could have picked a better place for this conversation,” Greg murmured with a touch of humour, as the waitress bounced back into view, bearing their main courses and a radiant smile. Mycroft was beginning to suspect she found the two of them _cute_.

          “Rather suitable, I should think,” Mycroft rejoined, smiling. “We bonded over food, after all.”

          “’s right, we did,” Greg smiled ear to ear, turning his smile up to the waitress, who faltered, then went pink with pleasure at being the recipient of his charm. “Thanks, luv,” he said casually, and turned his focus back to Mycroft, who was still reeling that his own feelings were so ardently returned. It seemed incredible that this lovely man—the man he’d been daydreaming about for months—should desire him equally, and yet it was clearly so.

          The two of them shared a look, both humoured and abashed, as they realized they still had a dinner to eat, now that they had opened the subject of an emotional connection. Slowly, however, they relaxed, finding their familiar footing, and exclaiming over the food, which was truly excellent. Mycroft felt Greg’s eyes on him as he slowly bit into the lamb, and although he flushed, he kept his gaze steady, letting his expression convey his pleasure in the food, and his regard for the man opposite.

          “Think I might be developing a bit of a fetish for feeding you,” Greg confessed in a low, hoarse voice. He pressed his teeth into his lower lip, eyes mesmerizing as he fed Mycroft another bite of arancini. “You’re devastating when you eat, Myc.”

          _Myc._ Normally he loathed nicknames and diminutives, but Mycroft was coming to feel that he would delight in almost anything this wonderful man chose to bestow upon him. The knowledge that Gregory had attained such power over him should have been alarming. Instead it was comforting…he’d never known the kind of connection he felt now. It left him as giddy as the physical attraction, which was rather all consuming.

          Caution was probably best, dipping his toes into any kind of personal relationship slowly. He should suggest another outing; perhaps increase the frequency of their lunches. Phone calls, and texts…work them slowly into a relationship.

          Mycroft wanted none of that. He wanted Greg, simply and deeply, with an urgency and desire which was stupendous. He was forty-five years old and he’d never allowed himself a measure of personal happiness. Be damned to prudence! Mycroft swallowed against a sudden sense of shyness, but spoke from the heart, “How would you feel about watching me eat breakfast?”

          “Mycroft,” Greg said hoarsely, after several false starts, eyes gleaming with promise, “there’s nothing I’d love better.”

 

******

 

_Six weeks later_

_Christmas Eve_

          “Good morning gorgeous,” Greg murmured in Mycroft’s ear, kissing his cheek softly as Mycroft snuggled his face into his pillow. “I brought you up breakfast…wanna wake up and have a bit, or are you going to keep sleeping?’

          “Mrrmmph,” Mycroft said into his pillow.

          “Can’t understand you,” Greg teased, setting the tray down on the bedside table. He’d become quite comfortable in Mycroft’s home in the month and a half they had been dating, and he delighted in cooking and catering to Mycroft’s needs, especially when he had Mycroft’s chef-quality, but formerly empty, kitchen at his disposal. Even if he had to make do with his own less than impressive kitchenette, however, Greg spent a long time searching for recipes and creating treats for his man.

          Mycroft adored it. He loved the food, but even more he loved the man who thought so much about his pleasure and happiness. It was a perfectly delightful experience for a man used to denying himself and indulging others.

          “I made brioche French toast with cinnamon apples, and some streaky bacon…Greek yoghurt with granola and there’s a lovely pot of tea for you.”

          Perking up at the thought of tea, Mycroft rolled over in bed, savouring the delicious ache in his well-used muscles, and the pleasant soreness of his arse as he stretched. “Tea,” he demanded, pouting adorably as Greg poured it out. He shuffled up to sit against the padded headboard, comfy with a pile of pillows and sipped his tea as Greg uncovered the plate he had prepared for him. Setting his tea aside, Mycroft took a fork and his plate and cut eagerly into the perfectly cooked bread. “Mmm…” he moaned, licking spiced applesauce from his lips, and watched Greg’s eyes grow dark.

          There was a distinctly sexual undertone to most of their meals together, and he delighted in driving his lover mad with desire for him. It made the surrender all the sweeter. Mycroft delighted in being the focus of Greg’s desire, and the recipient of his ardent passion.

          “Have some lovely bacon,” Greg suggested, holding a piece out with his fingers. He fed it to Mycroft slowly, his other hand stroking his hair and cheek. Mycroft closed his lips around Greg’s fingers and slowly sucked, turning his cheek into Greg’s caress. The degree of care and affection he had grown used to receiving was bewildering in its ability to delight him; even better, it was proving to be a never-ending supply.

          “God, that mouth,” Greg breathed, fixated on the motions of Mycroft’s tongue gently lapping him clean. He leaned in and kissed him, moaning softly, and food was momentarily forgotten as they chased their passion. Biting his lip, he sat back, “Are you full, sweetheart? Or do you have room for some yoghurt?”

          “Always room for a bit more,” Mycroft said cheekily, echoing his words of the night before, and welcomed the hot flash of Greg’s eyes at the memory. He readjusted his seat on the plush mattress, fresh arousal beginning to invade his being.

           Greg refreshed his tea and watched as Mycroft spooned up the yoghurt, savouring the texture, and the contrast of the granola. They had found it in a little health food boutique the previous weekend; it was cinnamon spiced, abundant with dried cranberries, almonds and pumpkin seeds, and sweetened with honey. Yes, Mycroft was quite enamored of it. Almost as much as he was with Greg. But then, nothing could really top his feelings for his dear Detective Inpsector.

          Belly pleasantly full, Mycroft gave another lazy stretch and began to sink back down in the bed. “That was lovely, Greg, thank you.”

          “Of course,” Greg said, setting aside the demolished tray. He shed his (Mycroft’s) dressing gown and lifted the covers, straddling Mycroft, with bright eyes and a playful, hopeful smile, “Too sleepy for a cuddle?”

          “Not at all,” Mycroft denied, wrapping his arms and legs around his boyfriend. He pulled him close and they sank into an easy, familiar embrace, kisses slow and gentle. Their lovemaking of the night before had been almost ferocious in its intensity, separated for a week as they had been, but in the hazy light of the morning they wanted only to experience the sensation of warm skin, soft kisses and long arms wrapping tight.

          “Mm, you’re so sweet,” Greg groaned, licking Mycroft’s neck. He worried a freckle on the crest of Mycroft’s collarbone with his teeth, tickling Mycroft, who squirmed to get away. “Ah-ah-ah,” he laughed, pulling him back with one arm and reaching out with the other to swipe his finger through a puddle of sticky apple goo. Lightly, he painted Mycroft’s nipples, smiling down at him as Mycroft’s breath came fast from anticipation and excitement. “Even sweeter now,” he said, bending his head to suck the treat slowly from his lover’s body.

          Mycroft arched into his touch, breath coming short, cock hardening. His sexual appetite, once as ruthlessly restrained as his appetite for food, had blossomed under the care of this magnificent man. Greg, knowing just what he needed, continued to lavish attention on his nipples, while reaching down to loosely encircle Mycroft’s erection with his hand. The smooth, steady strokes ramped up Mycroft’s desire, and he tugged Greg closer with his legs, letting his hands roam restlessly up and down the rippling muscles of Greg’s back; his hands slid up to cradle his head, fingers burying themselves eagerly in soft hair.

          “God, I love—I love this,” Greg whispered, raising his head and licking his lips. He kissed Mycroft softly, “You’re so damned addicting, Mycroft Holmes.”

          “I could say the same of you, Gregory,” Mycroft assured him, shuddering through the tightened grip of Greg’s palm. He knew what words Greg was biting back—he’d been biting them back too. It was wildly too soon, and yet he knew he was in love. It leant a magical element to the already wonderful Christmas holiday. Mycroft was determined to wait and give his love the words at a special time…perhaps tonight, in the candlelit glow of Mummy and Daddy’s parlour, next to the Christmas tree, once everyone had gone to bed. Then they could climb the creaking old stairs and steal down the hallway to his boyhood bedroom, once a cold and solitary place. It would be changed forever once he slept there, twined in his Gregory’s arms. Mycroft shivered with anticipatory happiness at the very idea.

          And perhaps…perhaps in a few years from now the festal season would be made all the more special by a proposal? It almost seemed too much to dream of, but then his life of late had been like that, one dream after another coming true.

          For now though, there was sensation and pleasure to chase, and they set themselves to it with abandon. Hips notched in tight as Greg straightened his legs, and Mycroft’s fingers dug into Greg’s buttocks as he drew him close. Eyes locked, they moved in a slow, easy rhythm, the delicious glide of their cocks dragging against one another building the fire higher. Unbidden, Mycroft whimpered, and Greg dropped his head, soothing him with the stroke of his lips, distracting him with tiny nibbles and nips.

          There was no urgency to finish, it was early still, they had hours before they had to leave for Sussex, and neither of them wanted to hurry. But the act of eating and feeding had kindled a bright flame which lit their actions with a rush. Greg’s hips pumped faster, Mycroft held him more tightly, and their tongues stroked and flashed and laved as the chase towards orgasm intensified. Mycroft broke first, coming with a sharp cry, muscles clenching tight and then loosening as he sank back into the mattress. Greg groaned at the sound of his pleasure, and his hips moved faster, in shorter, tighter jerks, and then he came, spilling hotly between them as he panted in Mycroft’s ear.

          Spent, they lay tangled, breath slowing, becoming chilled as sweat cooled on their skin. A long time later Greg raised his head from where it had fallen to Mycroft’s chest. He tugged lightly at his chest hair with his teeth, glancing up with a playful look, “Bath?”

          “Rather called for, I’d say,” Mycroft agreed, grimacing as they peeled themselves apart.

          “I’ll pop in some of those bath beads you like,” Greg promised, strutting across the room with a grin tossed over his shoulder. He delighted in finding small ways to tend to Mycroft’s needs, and one of them was bathing. Mycroft fetched his dressing gown from the floor and followed willingly after his boyfriend, heart light with happiness. It was the holiday season and the flavour of the season was love.


End file.
